Bewitched and Betrothed

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Not yet, but Sailor’s going to work on them some more.” As we spoke I glanced around Aidan’s office. Unlike me, Aidan kept his witchy paraphernalia out in the open: a black scrying mirror on the wall, a globe made of inlaid stone, a crystal ball perched on an elaborate filigreed silver base. “Also, Patience is going to try a reading, but she needs something personal that belonged to Elena. A favorite sweater or a piece of jewelry, something she’s worn recently.”

  “I can get that for you. Need it tonight?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon will be fine. Bring it by the store anytime.” I paused and my eyes fell on a couple of large leather-bound tomes pushed to one side of the large desk. The one on top was about female entities that followed their victims around in never-ending vengeance, such as the Vila and the Furies.

  “We’ll find her, Carlos. I’m sure of it.”

  “Let’s make it quick. For all our sakes.”

  We hung up, and I slid the book over toward me, fascinated by this glimpse into Aidan’s research. Renna once had told me that Sailor was being followed—and tormented—by a vila. Could Aidan be using it to control Sailor, somehow? Though we were professional allies, I could never quite figure out whether Aidan was friend or foe. And he was no fan of Sailor, or vice versa.

  Then I studied the other volume, which was a grimoire—a spell book—from the fifteenth or sixteenth century, entitled the Lesser Key of Solomon, or Clavicula Salomonis Regis. I flipped through the subsection titled Ars Goetia, which was a catalog of demons. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—of the critters, an entire hierarchy of princes and archdukes and lesser demons, all categorized by terrified monks in the Middle Ages. The demons’ characteristics and talents had been painstakingly noted, a seemingly endless variety. Some had wings, others rode horses, still other crawled like snakes. Depictions showed numerous eyes or half a dozen arms or legs, bodies that were often hybrids of human and animal. Demons were primordial, as ancient as the earth.

  In the past, certain demons were seen as potential helpers. Students, artists, and professionals sometimes called on demons for assistance, as if they were little genies. It could work, as long as you were able to maintain control over them. But that was no mean feat.

  I had met a few demons in my time, and battled a couple. Mostly, I tried to steer clear. I was a witch, but I was no fool.

  I looked up to find Noctemus staring at me, her wide blue eyes—so reminiscent of her master’s—twinkling in the low light of the amber sconces.

  “Is this what you wanted me to find? Aidan’s looking into demons? Why?” I thought about what Patience had told me about her aunt Renna. Surely Renna was too smart a practitioner to have become enthralled to a demon. But if her defenses were down, for some reason . . . I shivered at the possibility. Someone as knowing as Renna would lend a lot of power to a demon intent on ill.

  Noctemus’s only reply was to blink her big eyes. In this respect, Oscar definitely had an advantage, familiar-wise. I would take his sometimes annoying garrulousness over subtle, inarticulate blinks.

  “Ow!”

  Noctemus had leapt on me and dug her claws into my arm deep enough for blood to bead up along the scratches. The unpredictable feline then sat on the other side of the desk, out of arm’s length, and preened. I swore under my breath and dabbed at the wound with a handkerchief, but a drop of blood fell onto the page of the grimoire before I could catch it.

  I heard something, a whisper, but couldn’t tell whether it was coming from outside the office or from within: blood magic.

  I blew out a breath. I did not enjoy blood magic, though I often used a drop of my own blood in my brews. Still, there was no denying its power.

  I just wished I knew who—or what—was suggesting it.

  Chapter 8

  Every time I returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet, with its aroma of freshly laundered clothing and the sachets of herbs I hung on the rods, and my friends Bronwyn and Maya and Conrad, warm and welcoming, who watched over the store while I gallivanted around town . . . I reminded myself to count my blessings. My life was wildly complex, true, but it was a gift.

  Almost always.

  “Lily, I have some bad news,” said Bronwyn after I stashed my things.

  “What happened? Is it Elena?” I said, bracing myself.

  “No, no, nothing like that. In fact, it seems silly to bring it up at a time like this, but I still haven’t received my certification for the wedding, so I made a phone call to see what the holdup was. It’s in the works but it may not arrive in time for the handfasting. I don’t know that I can marry you legally.”

  I laughed, and Bronwyn looked relieved. “It’s not a problem, honest. Sailor and I can do the legal marriage at city hall anytime. The handfasting in front of my friends and family is what matters to me. You’re still up for that, right?”

  “Just try to stop me,” Bronwyn said with a warm smile.

  It was nearly closing time, so Bronwyn and Maya busied themselves straightening up the aisles, folding scarves, and rehanging merchandise while I went through the day’s receipts. Paperwork was my least favorite part of running a business, but there was no avoiding it. Even for a witch.

  We chatted about the wedding as we went about our tasks, laughing over some of the wilder ideas for party favors. I proposed we put together simple herbal sachets, Bronwyn suggested tiny homemade jars of jam—which sounded delicious but an awful lot of work—and Maya, who could be surprisingly traditional when it came to social customs, was in favor of baskets filled with colorful Jordan almonds with Sailor and Lily inscribed in sugar.

  As worried as we were about Elena, the homey interlude was healing and helped to ground us. I felt as though I should be doing more to find Carlos’s cousin, but so far I hadn’t come up with a way that I could help the investigation on my own.

  Receipts counted and logged, clothes rehung and shop floor swept, and wedding favors still undecided, we hugged each other good night. Bronwyn and Maya headed home, and I climbed the stairs to my apartment.

  “Don’t forget, we’re supposed to bring pizza and garlic knots and snacks to Calypso’s tonight,” said Oscar, following me around the apartment so closely that when I stopped he plowed into the back of my legs.

  “Ow!” I said.

  He didn’t miss a beat, just shook his big head and kept talking. “And the grandmas are gonna make dessert! Spice cake! ’Member?”

  “How could I forget?” I said. “Don’t fret, I called in the food order an hour ago. Let me just splash some water on my face, grab a few things, and we’ll get going.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed and dialed Sailor’s number. We didn’t usually talk by phone, and I knew he was busy tonight, but I wanted to know what he thought about Renna—and more important, why he hadn’t mentioned it to me. I got his voice mail. I listened to his strong voice inviting me to leave a message, but then hung up. He would probably know I called, anyway.

  Something was going on with him. Whether it was witchy intuition or just regular old people intuition, I just knew it.

  I blew out a breath, brushed my hair and used an elastic to tie it in a ponytail, then went back into the kitchen. I took my old red leather Book of Shadows off a high shelf and packed it into my bag, along with a sack of gorse blossoms and a loaf of fresh-baked sourdough bread as offerings for the fairies. Oscar was negotiating with them on my behalf so Sailor and I could have our handfasting in a redwood fairy circle. He had a meeting set up for tonight.

  “Time for pizza?” Oscar looked up at me, an eager expression on his face.

  “Time for pizza.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Hey, mistress, could we stop to check out the gargoyles in the Romanesque portal of the old Masonic Temple at Van Ness and Market?”

  “The pizzas will get cold, Oscar.”

  “Calypso can
reheat them. Just a quick stop, please, mistress.”

  I opened my mouth to ask why he hadn’t already checked out all the local gargoyles, but caught myself. I knew why. Oscar was nervous that he would actually find his mother, and wanted a friend at his side, just in case. He would do the same for me.

  I understood. I had more than my fair share of parental issues, myself, and had only recently been reunited with my own mother. The reunion had gone well—much better than I’d ever allowed myself to hope or imagine—but our relationship was still a far sight away from what one might call “easy.”

  I picked up eight pizzas—lots with half-and-half toppings to accommodate the many different tastes—and garlicky knots with dipping sauce, as well as an assortment of appetizers, at Escape from New York. The car filled with the tantalizing scents of freshly baked dough and tomato sauce, cheese and veggies and pepperoni, and I realized I would spend the entire trip to Bolinas reminding Oscar to keep his snout out of the boxes. Since I’m no novice when it comes to Oscar’s antics I had bought him his very own box of cheesy sticks to munch on as we drove. Still.

  We stopped at the Masonic Temple, which was at one of the city’s busier intersections. With no parking spot in sight, I edged over at a red curb in front of a fire hydrant.

  “The Romanesque-style arch is inspired by cathedrals in France,” Oscar said as we checked out the buff, lionlike creatures holding up part of the portal. “But they’re not really gargoyles, now that I look at them. And that there’s King Solomon, in a canopy of sculpted angels.”

  “You’ve been doing your research.”

  “Yup.”

  “Why is there a statue of King Solomon?”

  “It’s a Freemason thing,” said Oscar. “Did you know that there’s a truncated pyramid shape formed by connecting Market and Mission, along Montgomery Street, with the base formed by Van Ness? The Transamerica Pyramid building sits at its capstone.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “I mean, is it just a coincidence or were the streets laid out that way on purpose?”

  “I guess that’s the question. The truncated pyramid is a prominent Freemason symbol, and it’s also on the seal of the United States.”

  “I thought that was an eagle.”

  “It’s on the other side.”

  “Oh. Like on the dollar bill?”

  He nodded. “And you know how cowans feel about their money. Whooo-eee,” he said, imitating me. “Heh.”

  “But . . . is it supposed to do anything? Offer protection of some sort? From what I know about pyramid power, it’s meant to play on magnetic forces. But that requires an actual three-dimensional pyramid, not just a triangular design.”

  Oscar shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Maybe.” I thought back to the Lesser Key of Solomon and the Ars Goetia. A “Solomon’s Triangle” was used to capture demons . . . unless of course the demon turned tables on the conjurer.

  “Look what else I found on the Web,” Oscar said, and started to read: “The term ‘gargoyle,’ in the strictest sense, refers to carved figures meant to be used as rainspouts, particularly popular in Europe during the Middle Ages—whereas chimeras are figures that may or may not serve as rainspouts. Here in San Francisco, there are examples of metal gargoyles situated on the flèche atop Grace Cathedral; others are visible at the entrance of the Russ Building downtown; still others are perched upon the brick walls of San Francisco General Hospital. Wanna go to Grace Cathedral?”

  “Wait, your mother is a chimera, then?”

  “Well, since you asked: ‘Chimera’ refers to any imaginary beast used as decoration, while ‘gargoyle’ refers to carved grotesques used as architectural features to carry rainwater away from the roofs of buildings. From the French word for ‘throat,’ gorge. Also see gargle. Gargle. Heh. Gargle’s a funny word.” Chuckling, Oscar repeated: “Gargle gargle gargle . . .”

  Goblin humor.

  “But I don’t like the way they say ‘grotesque,’” he continued. “That’s kinda mean, isn’t it? If you ask me, they’re the grotesque ones.”

  “I think it’s intended in the architectural sense, as in something complex and inventive, which isn’t insulting. So, to be clear: Is your mother a gargoyle or a chimera?”

  “I never saw her spout rainwater through her throat, if that’s what you mean. Yeah, so maybe I meant ‘gargoyle’ in a sort of generic sense.”

  “That opens things up a bit,” I said, thinking to myself that if Oscar had to search the world for a chimera, he was going to be one well-traveled gobgoyle. As would I, of course, since I had promised to help him look. “Anyway, we don’t have time to track down every gargoyle—or chimera—in San Francisco just at the moment. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “You always have a lot to do,” he grumbled. “Chasing after murderers and whatnot. And it’s worse now with that girl witch.”

  “Selena?” Selena and Oscar had what can best be described as a sibling-type relationship: competitive and sniping, and very occasionally close.

  “Yeah. It’s like I’ve always said: ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s Selena.’”

  I smiled and started the engine. “You did not always say that.”

  “I should have.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been preoccupied lately, Oscar,” I said as we drove through busy downtown avenues, heading for the Golden Gate Bridge. “You’re right, there’s a lot going on and I haven’t given you the attention you deserve.”

  “Thank you, mistress,” Oscar replied, his growl filled with emotion.

  “You’re welcome. Hey, you know what?”

  “What?” Oscar bounced up and down on the car seat excitedly, good humor restored.

  “I was thinking: You know where it seems like there should be gargoyles, but there aren’t?”

  “Where?”

  “San Quentin prison,” I said. “I went there once, and the facade is castellated, like a castle, but there are no gargoyles.”

  “What’s with you and the penal system lately?” He hiked his skinny shoulders and shivered. “Prisons give me the willies. You wouldn’t catch the likes of Oscar out on Alcatraz, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Is there something about Alcatraz in particular that you don’t like?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just saying, I’d rather avoid the place.”

  “I know what you mean.” I couldn’t stop thinking about Elena. Had her assailants taken her to Alcatraz, and if so, why?

  Besides my worry for Elena, I was out of sorts. This was a time in my life that I was supposed to be concentrating on finding the perfect bridesmaid dresses for Maya and Bronwyn and Selena—and now Patience!—and fretting about fripperies, such as party favors and guest lists, not worrying about evil shirts and a kidnapping. Also, something was up with Sailor, I was certain of it. I adored him and had in no way changed my mind about the handfasting, but we really did need to carve out the time—and mental space—to clarify a few things between us before the big day.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I suggested as we passed over the Golden Gate Bridge. To our left, the sun was just beginning to set, casting spectacular pink and tangerine streaks over the ocean.

  I glanced to our right, and my eyes fell on Alcatraz. The Rock. The lonely, miserable island in the bay.

  “Okay,” said Oscar, munching on his cheese sticks. “So, I’ve been thinking: Should I be a flower pig or a ring bearer?”

  “Bronwyn’s grandchildren are going to be the flower children, remember?”

  “I could do it better than them.”

  “Because tossing flower petals requires advanced skill?”

  “See? I told you. You’re in a bad mood lately.”

  I stewed for a moment. “You’re right. I’m a little jumpy, and a lot preoccupied.
Among my worries is that you still haven’t negotiated a settlement with the woods folk so we can use the fairy circle for the handfasting. Will you be able to get it done tonight, do you think?”

  “Those guys are pretty touchy. Negotiations are ongoing, is all I can say.”

  “I brought the fairy money and the bread.”

  “You know, you could always get married at the Slovenian Hall or something. Doesn’t have to be in the fairy circle. Plenty of people get married indoors.”

  “I can’t get married at the Slovenian Hall.”

  “’Cause you’re not Slovenian? I can smooth it over, no worries. I know a guy.”

  “It’s not that. I’m sure it’s a lovely place, but . . . this is a handfasting. And I’m a witch. I need the blessing of the woods spirits. I can feel it in my gut.”

  “Are you sure that’s a premonition? Maybe you’re just hungry. Hey, maybe we should open one of the pizzas!” Oscar said, and reached for a pizza box.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Grudgingly, he put it back.

  “Cheesy stick?” Oscar offered.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but no. Seriously, Oscar, I’m trusting my gut on this one. The fairy circle, in the redwoods. That’s the only place that will do.”

  Oscar muttered under his breath.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said: Are you sure it’s the location that’s worrying you?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “Cold feet?”

  “Why would I have cold feet?” I asked, a tad stridently.

  Oscar widened his eyes and looked away, as if to say, Sheesh, told you so.